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Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,And yet complain'st of his great jealousy;If, swollen with poison, he lay in his last bed,His body with a sere bark covered,Drawing his breath as thick and short as canThe nimblest crocheting musician,Ready with loathsome vomiting to spewHis soul out of one hell into a new,Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries,Begging with few feign'd tears great legacies,Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, and frolic be,As a slave, which to-morrow should be free.Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerlySwallow his own death, heart's-bane jealousy.O give him many thanks, he's courteous,That in suspecting kindly warneth us.We must not, as we used, flout openly,In scoffing riddles, his deformity;Nor at his board together being sat,With words, nor touch, scarce looks, adulterate.Nor when he, swollen and pamper'd with great fare,Sits down and snorts, cag'd in his basket chair,Must we usurp his own bed any more,Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.Now I see many dangers; for it isHis realm, his castle, and his diocese.But ifas envious men, which would revileTheir prince, or coin his gold, themselves exileInto another country, and do it thereWe play in another house, what should we fear?There we will scorn his household policies,His silly plots, and pensionary spies,As the inhabitants of Thames' right sideDo London's mayor, or Germans the Pope's pride.

© John Donne